


The Heart of Darkness

by sevensus



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Blood, But there are happy moments too :) Promise, M/M, Pandemics, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23135494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevensus/pseuds/sevensus
Summary: Akaashi wakes up on a couch in an abandoned house in suburbs that could have resembled his own little neighbourhood, had this been only a few months earlier. He’s not the type to fantasize, but a little part of him wishes that he could have everything (which isn’t much) in another life, where he could guarantee that everything would be okay. He would wake up to strong arms wrapped around his waist, the legs that have wrapped around him in their sleep, and the feeling of Bokuto’s breathing a reminder that he is so, so,soalive. These thoughts possess him at night, when he succumbs to the peace and weariness of the dusk. And there is Bokuto, warm.Safe._In the heart of darkness, Akaashi Keiji has found a home, even if it's temporary.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 18
Kudos: 54





	The Heart of Darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [a fighting chance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5865535) by [pancakewars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pancakewars/pseuds/pancakewars). 



> required reading: [a fighting chance by pancakewars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5865535?view_adult=true), as this is an AU of my friend's _incredible_ work. i would highly recommend reading it, even if this fic wasn't a branch off!  
> that being said, i recognize the implication of posting this work at what seems like the rising height of the COVID-19 pandemic, and i would like to say that this fic was planned before that became a concern. my heart goes out to those who have been and currently are impacted by this virus.  
> now, as a precaution, this fic contains _major character death_ , as well as depictions of mental instability (just as a second reminder). it takes off sometime after the gang has met, with an obvious divergence from the original work.  
> and as always, thank you for reading!!!

There are worlds, they say, whose streets shiver and shake under the darkness of its inhabitants. This darkness that bleeds out like the blood that stain the waters a rich scarlet teems with the errors of humanity: poverty, murder, and fear, drowning goodness in a well of shadow. These are the men who thrive off of modern-day slavery, who vy to become the gods of this world in wealth. They are the first to succumb to the illness, taking down their legacies as they walk with hysteria running through their veins.

Everyone must bow down to the one true God of this world: Fear.

Akaashi Keiji knows this fact most of all. He understands what it takes to survive, and he understands that he has orders to kill anything that may threaten his chance to survive the next day, even if he dies the day after that. Each gunshot, ringing out in symphonies alongside his heart, tears little pieces of him apart, one by one.

His mother told him to never trust anyone, knowing that Fear worms its way into the hearts of the vulnerable. He made a promise, he  _ promised _ her, right before she, too, succumbed.

And then he met Bokuto. 

It’s not like the storybooks read to him as a child. There was no moment of truth, no light that shone upon them except the cruel eyes of Fate as he reached for that coil and found that he was swept away. There was only shattered glass crunching under his feet. There was a desperate need for survival that was his sole reason for taking each step forward.

And there were golden eyes.

Akaashi wakes up on a couch in an abandoned house in suburbs that could have resembled his own little neighbourhood, had this been only a few months earlier. He’s not the type to fantasize, but a little part of him wishes that he could have everything (which isn’t much) in another life, where he could guarantee that everything would be okay. He would wake up to strong arms wrapped around his waist, the legs that have wrapped around him in their sleep, and the feeling of Bokuto’s breathing a reminder that he is so, so,  _ so _ alive. These thoughts possess him at night, when he succumbs to the peace and weariness of the dusk. And there is Bokuto, warm.

Safe.

The light filters in from the window - it was shattered many months ago, and the shards have begun to yellow and thin on the carpet, which is nearly ripped-out, flecks of brown splattered against the long white marks on the walls and dusty baseboards. Bokuto’s chest presses against Akaashi’s back, and while it isn’t the most spacious of lodgings, it’s enough.

Bokuto shifts, and Akaashi’s eyes crack open as the blue light allows the chill of the room to begin its dispersion. Various joints crack and pop as Akaashi, tucked between Bokuto and the threadbare couch cushions, struggles to sit up as Bokuto commences his astoundingly drowsy morning yawn. 

Akaashi scrunches up his nose. “Gross. You have morning breath.”

Bokuto, eyes still closed, grins as he removes his arm from where it rests on Akaashi’s waist. “Better than no breath at all! Plus, my toothbrush’s missing. Good morning, by the way.”

“Dude,” Kuroo calls out from the other side of the room, occupying his own loveseat before promptly rolling off with a meaty  _ thump.  _ There’s a pained groan that comes from under the coffee table that follows. “You left it in my bag last night before your shift. Said you wanted it to be safe… just in case.”

“Really?” Bokuto perks up as he and Akaashi both sit up. “Did you keep it safe? The sparkly one?”

“With the stars, yeah.”

A small snort comes from the other side of the room- Kenma, who was first on watch duty and first to wake up. 

The morning rolls by quietly, and the sun peers over the ravaged land like a child through the window of a new dollhouse. If it was just a regular morning stroll, maybe Akaashi would’ve reached for Bokuto’s hand, if only to watch the smile brighten not only his face, but the area around them allows for no such intimacy, lest it become weakness. Kenma keeps quiet alongside Kuroo, who picks his way over the cracked sidewalk, whistling quietly enough that the rest of them can barely hear him. But it’s grounding to hear this tune, and music is a small reminder of their humanity.

“Hey, Akaashi,” Bokuto calls out slightly from behind him. They keep a tight diamond formation, with the Akaashi flanking the right, one hand always at his side. He doesn’t speak, but he looks back at Bokuto, who grins under his attention. Akaashi peers over his shoulder, and Bokuto follows. Nothing there. “You remember the house we were in this morning? They had a dog.”

Akaashi remembers ransacking the fridge and cabinets for food while Kenma and Kuroo checked the bathrooms for extra supplies, but no mentions of any dog anywhere. “How do you know?”

“I saw a food bowl there,” Bokuto continues, peering to his side curiously. Having left early in the morning, the four boys were well into the heart of the suburbs, now passing through an abandoned street downtown. Old signs still light up against the plants beginning to snake up the walls side, blinking faintly against the light of the sun’s zenith. The shadows, in contrast, only grow deeper as the bodies begin to litter the streets. “Apparently its name is Fuji, like the apple.”

Kenma, to Akaashi’s left, brushes a child’s toy out of the way with his foot, grimacing. “I would’ve thought about the mountain first.”

Kuroo, in front of Akaashi, leads the way. “Didn’t your dad get you a dog when you were growing up, Kenma? He said he wanted you to be more active.”

“No, he got me a fish. I didn’t want a pet, anyway… There’s not much I could do with one.”

“Y’know, I would  _ love _ to have a dog.” When Bokuto leans in, Akaashi notes how wide his eyes are, vivid and filled to the brim with excitement. He speaks in a quick, hushed tone, picking over a few pairs of abandoned sneakers. “I was planning on getting one when I’m older, but… Actually, you know what? If I find one, I bet I could train it to fight like us. I’m going to name him Sasuke so he's the best.”   


Kenma snorts mid-step, and Akaashi has to look to the side, inspecting a building for the living dead in order to keep himself from bursting out into laughter. Kuroo prods forward. “Hey, man, don’t go that far. What’ll you have us for, then?”

Nothing but shattered glass and mannequin arms raised above their plastic heads, almost in reverence, and scattered across the floor. They must’ve been ripped off in haste as the clothes were looted.

“I bet you’d be the perfect American, Bokuto,” Kuroo continues amidst Akaashi’s silly thoughts. Picturing the wild boy in a serious outfit talking about ‘economic expansion’ seems ridiculous when juxtaposed with his wild, loving nature. “Yeah, ya know? White picket fence, 2.5 kids, and Sasuke.”

“I-” Akaashi starts, before he’s cut short as his stomach drops to the bottom of his feet. Something’s caught his foot, something hard, and he’s falling onto the cement with barely anything to break his fall. He lands painfully on an outstretched hand, stunned for a moment before there’s a quick smattering of footsteps and a hand in his field of vision, held out towards him.

Akaashi tries to move his hand out from under himself, but sharp needles of pain burrowing into his skin prevent him from just so as he struggles to catch his breath. It takes him a moment to look up, and only a combination of Kuroo and Kenma on either side of him help him get to his feet, where he quickly walks off the sting of any mild scrapes.

Bokuto, his arm still outstretched before him, stares blankly at the spot right where Akaashi’s foot was. There, jammed wrist-down in a large crack in the sidewalk, a pale hand points up to the sky, grip loose and weakened from the lack of working muscle, but fingers still curled and bloodied.

And Akaashi remembers where all of these boys are.

Kuroo is the first one to break the silence between them, thick in the air like the afternoon rays cutting through the atmosphere to bear down on them. “We were probably going to eat soon, anyway.”

*

Sitting a couple hundred meters away from the hand in a cozy-looking restaurant with the windows intact, Akaashi winces as Kuroo bends his fingers this way and that, checking in every few seconds with his pain level. After a few moments of lip-chewing pensivity, Kuroo sits back into the booth’s chair.

“Well, it’s not a fracture,” Kuroo concludes, saying it loud enough for Bokuto and Kenma to hear. Akaashi hears one sigh in audible relief. Kuroo turns to the two, an eyebrow raised. “But that doesn’t mean it’s all good either. I saw a textile store a couple doors down - could you two run for some fabric to make a splint? It’s rough, but all we can do for now.”

As Bokuto and Kenma head out, packs in tow, Kuroo turns back to Akaashi. “It’s probably just a sprain or something. It’ll heal up as long as you don’t mess with it.”

An amused smile pokes at Akaashi’s lips. He doesn’t recall this type of attention since visiting his general practitioner for some mild pneumonia medication. “You know what you’re talking about, Kuroo-san. Were you studying to become a doctor?”

“Sort of.” Kuroo shrugs, a playful little glint coming from his eyes, something uncommonly human in a destitute land. “I had a lot of cousins, growing up. That, and I wanted to become a doctor. What about you, Akaashi? You don’t talk about yourself much.”

Akaashi thinks to how he’s never really had a reason to explain himself before. Nothing stands out about him - he’s been average in everything, from grades, to volleyball, to social life, as a classmate named Rei once pointed out about him. The plague intensified that averageness and turned his all-rounder skill into necessity.

Just then, the door to the diner opens, a little jingle at from the door’s bell signifying return.

“Kuroo.” Bokuto’s voice, from behind Akaashi sounds strange. There’s a quietness to him, without the usual rush of his thoughts, that pertains to the way he says his name. It’s careful, a warning. “You might wanna come see this.”

Kuroo gets up immediately. “You got the stuff?”

Bokuto nods, stepping inside the diner hurriedly. Kuroo and Bokuto exchange a quick half-hug, a look between them shared in a rush as Bokuto slides into the booth with him, cloth in hand. “He’s all yours, Bo.”

Bokuto doesn’t rush wrapping the cloth around Akaashi’s hand, and the material is stiff and slightly rough. The first time he wraps it, it’s too tight, and Bokuto mumbles apologies as he unwraps it, only to wrap it even tighter than before.

“Relax,” Akaashi murmurs, and Bokuto inhales a sharp breath before releasing shakily. He rewraps it slowly, just right. His hands shake in their proximity.

The two slide out of the booth, startlingly close. Bokuto’s arms, when they wrap around Akaashi, jostle his makeshift wrist splint, but the pain is worth it when compared to the temporary security of being held. His mother’s words don’t run through his head as he finds a makeshift home, as well.

However, when the two step outside, they are met with a gruesome sight. Akaashi, unfrozen in only seconds, must look away, while Boktuo can’t stop looking. Hands, hands everywhere, splayed across the opening of an alley like a painting with the bodies taken out, sanguine graffiti. The words are in the capital letters of the English alphabet, the top spelled out in appendages while the following words are red-brown in thick, coagulated streaks of blood.

‘GOD’, it says, ‘IS WATCHING.’

They have to keep going.

*

They do.

The four boys walk until the afternoon sun peers down at them, smiling vividly upon the night-creatures slumbering amongst concrete giants. The sun’s at its hottest, and the boys need to take a break before the break comes for them first.

While sitting down and taking a swig from a water bottle they snagged earlier on from their trek into town, Akaashi notices the glint of the plastic eyes of the little stuffed owl peeking out from his bag, as if it was hiding. He takes it out, inspecting its little horns and how round its eyes actually are.

“I trust he’s safe with you, Akaashi,” Bokuto says as he takes a seat next to him, making Akaashi nearly jump out of his skin. If he was anyone else, Akaashi’s first instinct would’ve told him to get to his gun, lying cold on the floor beside him. But his brain recognizes Bokuto’s voice quicker than he does. “I mean, he looks pretty good, right?”

Akaashi’s shoulders drop as he looks back to the bug-eyed beanie baby. “Does he have a name? These things usually do.”

Bokuto peers at it from the side. “They  _ do _ , but I think I ripped the tag off when I was a kid. My bad.”

“Yeah, your bad,” Kuroo calls out, sitting down and reaching for their water bottle. Akaashi passes the stuffy to Bokuto before stretching his arm out to Kuroo, successfully playing an unofficial game of hot-potato with the bottle before Kuroo takes a swig. Kenma sits down, looking past his shoulders. They sit right near an abandoned pickup truck with the wheels slashed - good cover in case the living dead are looking for something to infect.

“Does it have a name?” Kenma asks as he sits next to Kuroo, who wipes his mouth with his sleeve before passing the bottle to Kenma. Akaashi shakes his head.

He looks to the owl, cradled in Bokuto’s hands. Kenma’s smile is tiny, but still there. “You should give it one.”

Akaashi was never good at permanence, and naming something like he would to a child makes the stuffy feel realer than what it should feel like. “I don’t have any ideas right now… Kuroo-san?”

Kuroo grins. “Penis.”

Akaashi grimaces at the name. “No.”

“Weenus.”

“No.”

“George Weasley?”

“No!”

“You’re so boring that it’s actually making me sad, Akaashi,” Kuroo groans, falling back against the metal door with a hand to his forehead. Kenma rolls his eyes, padding over to Bokuto and holding his hand out expectantly. “Let me see that for a minute.”

When Kenma takes the little owl, the four boys pause, like they’re holding their breath. Kenma brings it close to his face, savouring touching something soft after his most prized possession became a gun and a polaroid photo, which was barely his to begin with. His voice is soft. “How long have you had it for?”

Bokuto grins. The sun is bright, but he’s brighter. “Since I was a kid. I’m surprised he’s in such good condition.”

“Me too,” Kenma replies. He turns to Akaashi, handing him the owl, and while his eyes aren’t soft, they’re not steel, either. “He should be named something important, if you’re the sentimental type. I haven’t figured you out yet.”

Akaashi looks down, furrowing his eyebrows over the little owl. “ _ Chisai _ ?”

Kuroo snorts, making a motion to snatch the owl, but Akaashi’s reflexive skills best him. “You’re going to name it  _ small _ ?”

Akaashi frowns. No… that isn't right. There’s more to it than just being small, and as he holds it up to the light, he notices Bokuto watching him. Akaashi’s gaze flits between the owl, who looks startlingly familiar to him, and Bokuto’s hooded golden eyes. Then, it hits him where the similarity comes from.

“Chibo,” Akaashi murmurs. 

“What?” Kuroo calls out, not unlike an old man. “Weenie?”

“No,” Akaashi draws his gaze away from Bokuto, but still shifts a little closer to him so that their knees bump together and they feel, truly, like teenagers. “Chibo. It’s a portmanteau of  _ chibi _ and Bokuto. They look alike.”

Holding up Chibo to a slightly bewildered Bokuto, Kuroo snorts so loudly that he later complains of his nose burning like he choked on air. Kenma, after squinting curiously at the owl, confirms it with a nod. Bokuto looks at Akaashi helplessly as Kenma returns to his seat beside Kuroo, patting Kuroo's back while he coughs it out.

“I mean… I guess I can see it,” Bokuto concludes after taking a long second to ponder over Akaashi’s naming choice. After all, the golden eyes, the soft speckled hair, and the owl’s horns take after Bokuto’s quite well. “Chibo it is!” Though that, too, is a question.

“Nice name,” Kenma comments. Kuroo shoots up a thumb from where he’s hunched over, slapping his knee, muttering something about  _ his face, his fucking face! _

Akaashi looks at Bokuto, then Chibo, and in that golden light, things are okay.

*

While the sun is a forgiving host, granting shade to its guests in the vivid daytime, the moon is less so, bringing with it a chill that urges any living human to huddle closer to another for warmth. If at least that is not possible, then one is truly alone.

The sun is on its way to set soon, turning the sky a golden-yellow in its wake and making Bokuto’s eyes look like a precious metal in its purest form, liquid, in pools. There’s no fire between them, but Bokuto radiates warmth, something uncommon as the summer season comes to an end.

Dinner itself is meager; some gummy vitamins salvaged from a nearby store, a couple of mildly-stale protein bars, and the sticky red preservative liquid of maraschino cherries in plastic cups. It’s nothing grand, but it’s enough for the two while Kenma and Kuroo patrol the vicinity and grab their own share.

“Hey, ‘Kaashi” Bokuto says, voice soft, bringing their shared silence to a soft stop. “If you weren’t in this situation, do you think you’d ever want kids?”

“Not really.” Akaashi stops chewing on his gummy, swallows it pensively. “I’ve never given it much thought, actually. I’m usually busy with school. What about you, Bokuto-san?”

Bokuto looks him in the eye, then the sky, the glow of the setting sun highlighting the curves of bone and structure within his face. It’s almost breathtaking, watching him like this.

“I kinda always knew I wanted to be a Dad,” Bokuto commences, kicking up a little dirt from where they sit together. “It’s just a  _ feeling _ , you know?”

Akaashi’s cheeks are warm, and Bokuto leans into him, smiling like this could be their first date. A mild breeze ruffles his spiky hair, streaked black and white. A thought runs through his mind to touch it, see how soft it really is. Maybe later tonight.

“I want to care for someone, protect them and watch them grow up. But it’s so unsafe out here, y’know? How could I feed a kid when I can barely provide for myself right now?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi murmurs, and his hands are sticky with maraschino juice as they sneak their way across their thighs, only to entangle themselves with Bokuto’s. There’s a faint humming in the distance, like a song could be playing in the background of a movie. “Anyone would be lucky to have you as either a father or a husband.”

Akaashi leans in, his head resting on Bokuto’s shoulder for a moment as he closes his eyes. Just one moment of peace in a sea of constant vigilance.

“- and we are the children of the true God. We are Fear,” the voice sings, “We are Fear. We are Fear. Bless us, O Lord, give to us the power to open the eyes of the Unblessed, to open their hearts, and their hands.”

“I didn’t know Kuroo was religious,” Akaashi murmurs into Bokuto’s shoulder until he opens his eyes, suddenly upright, peering into Bokuto’s wide eyes.

“He isn’t.”

They rush up together, drinks spilling out of their hands and stickily onto their surroundings as a man limps towards them, hands dripping with blood, clutching severed fingers like pencils as he stumbles around the vicinity. In his other hand, he brandishes a knife.

Bokuto doesn’t think twice. “Pack. Gun.  _ Gun. _ ”

The order registers in Akaashi’s mind immediately as he rushes to their packs, a mere metre away, and rifles through their weaponry to find a pistol of some sort. Many small knives make shallow cuts as he frantically searches - Kuroo must’ve taken the extra on his patrol. Akaashi looks over to Bokuto, who, in a blur, grapples with the main praising the Lord of Fear who hath brung this plague upon them like blessed rains. There’s a gun at his waist, but how close can he get to Bokuto without disrupting his struggle with the infected man? Akaashi snaps back to the bag, where he pulls out the longest knife he can see in the waning light.

He’s over there in a flash, his own shaky knife tucked behind his back as he goes unnoticed by the two, the knife in the heretic’s hand teetering close to slicing at Bokuto’s wrist every time he wrenches it away. It has to be the perfect moment to strike. “Bokuto-”

_ BANG. _

Months into the plague, Akaashi is still not used to the sound of gunshots, the feeling of the machinery trembling and smoking at his fingertips, followed by the sound of a body dropping. Bokuto breaks away from the man, hunched over from the smell alone. Kenma, from the other side of the street, puts down his gun. His eyes are hard and he looks to Kuroo, who makes his way quickly to both him and Bokuto.

But Bokuto turns back to Akaashi.

The distance between them is nothing. He crushes Akaashi’s ribs and lungs, but it’s a small price to pay for security. He can hear Bokuto’s heart beating erratically in his chest, a testament to his life. 

“That’s it,” Bokuto says, presumably speaking to Kuroo. Akaashi, still caught in his embrace, has to push against him for space to breathe. “I’m  _ not _ leaving Akaashi alone. He could’ve died just now.”

“Bokuto-” Akaashi gasps, before Bokuto notices how tightly he’s been holding him and finally releases him. Oxygen fills his lungs in fiery need, but Bokuto seems wild, frantic from his fight. “Bokuto.” He takes another breath. “Listen. Listen to me. Are you hurt?”

Kuroo takes a look at Bokuto just as Kenma pads up to the little group, gun cocked in case anyone else decided to join their supper party. He surveilles the area for anything moving. “Dude, stop. Akaashi’s fine.”

It doesn’t work as Bokuto rushes back to Akaashi, gripping his arms tightly with little thought of his sprained wrist. His eyes locate easily the sticky red patch of red on Akaashi’s previously blue shirt.

“No,” Bokuto says. “Nevermind me. You’re hurt. You’re bleeding. Kuroo, he’s  _ bleeding _ , get the fucking-”

Akaashi takes a deep breath, expecting a wave of pain to wash over him - but then he remembers, the man didn’t get close enough to him to have taken a swing. He looks down, and the stain on his shirt smells too sweet to be blood.

“Bokuto,” Akaashi pleads, reaching for the knife that had clattered out of his grip when Boktuo took ahold of him, but he won’t let go. “Calm down, it’s just maraschino juice. From the drink.”

“I’m not ever letting you out of my sight ever again.” Bokuto heaves out his words like retching, coming deep from his scratchy throat. “If I don’t protect you then the world’s gonna get you, Akaashi, you know that? You fucking know what the land’s gonna do to someone who’s  _ weak _ ?”

Bokuto’s voice rises, coming up to almost a roar before Kuroo gets behind him and puts him into a headlock, hand over Bokuto’s mouth as he almost screams, kicking at the ground. Dread enters Akaashi’s bloodstream as he freezes in place - Bokuto can’t stop looking at him - as he and Kuroo lower themselves to the ground. Kenma’s gun trains on Bokuto’s temple, pressed against it. He fingers the trigger, ready.

“Bokuto.” The only thing worse than seeing Kuroo stoop to Bokuto’s level of energy is to see him calm, completely quiet. “Bokuto. Can you hear me? Calm the  _ fuck _ down.”

Bokuto stops kicking, but he’s still breathing heavily. He stops struggling. The wildfire in his eyes dies down to a blaze, and he’s red like a fever.

“We good? Are we good, Bo?” Kuroo asks, and Bokuto nods from his place in Kuroo’s chokehold. “Alright. I’m letting you go now. Don’t try anything, now. You know what’s going to happen.”

Akaashi looks up to Kenma. There is no warmth in his eyes, only the hardness of necessity. It feels like centuries pass between them in the form of one second each as Bokuto’s breathing evens out, and he looks up at Akaashi with tears in his eyes, slumping down onto the ground in defeat.

“Oh, God,” Bokuto sobs, and Akaashi immediately kneels down. He can’t touch Bokuto yet - he doesn’t know if it’s allowed. “Oh, God, Akaashi, I’m so sorry. That… that-”

“That wasn’t you,” Akaashi murmurs. If he was a different person then he would hug Bokuto, hold him close. God knows they both need it, desperately. “It’s okay. It’s not you.”

“I promise,” Bokuto cries, shoulders shaking from what overtook him. If he was infected, however, then Akaashi knows Kenma would’ve had no choice but to shoot.

But Akaashi would have hesitated.

*   


It takes days for Bokuto to gain back the troupe’s trust, and the tension between them festers as Bokuto continuously seeks to prove that he’s not infected. It’s barely enough for Akaashi, who has grown soft for him, to believe it. But even so, Bokuto finds them a place to stay for the night, where any sounds they might make will be masked by padded walls and a shatterproof screen. It’s not enough, yet, but it’s close.

Still, with a dubious physical state, Bokuto and Kuroo go out for the evening patrol as the four settle down at an abandoned music studio on the outskirts of the suburbs. It’s Akaashi and Kenma’s turn to forage for their dinner’s meal, and they come up with some food supplies from the back of the studio, surprisingly - canned beans and Pocky, which is stale when they share a stick, but good enough for them as they work to cracking open the supposedly baked BBQ goodness.

Their silence is comfortable, mutual, as they crack open the first couple of cans and divvy up the portions. The rest are stored carefully at the bottom of their bags, with more for the other boys to carry once they come back.

“I’m sure they’ll be happy to finally eat something that’s…” Akaashi speaks first, and he trails off, looking for the words that fit talking to someone like Kenma. “Substantial.”

Kenma looks up from spooning beans into a slightly cracked bowl. “Yeah. Even I don’t want to live off sugar until we find some other store to rob.”

Akaashi sighs into his seat, a rolly-chair he stole from what looks to be the producer’s seat. It’s so comfortable that it could be a bed. “That reminds me.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m lucky that it was Bokuto that found me and not either one of you, aren’t I?” To this, Kenma looks at him, studying his face in a search for any potential insecurity… or second thoughts. “If it was either you or Kuroo-san who found me, I believe we wouldn’t be having this conversation today.”

Kenma shrugs. “No offence.”

“None taken,” Akaashi replies, stretching in his chair before curling into a ball. “I would do the same to you. I just… Bokuto didn’t shoot me, and I’m not sure why.”

“You’re useful,” Kenma notes around a mouthful of beans.

“Still,” Akaashi continues. He pauses for a moment, reaching for his beans. “This may be a rude question, but are you afraid of anything, Kenma-san?”

“I don’t think anyone isn’t right now.” Kenma chews his beans thoughtfully between words, the sounds absorbed by the walls. “I used to think about this type of thing before it happened. I didn’t think it actually would’ve.”

“But it did. And here you are.”

“Here I am,” Kenma sighs, tucking his chin into his bright red jacket. It’s almost comical, how small one can look in something so big. “This isn’t like a video game at all.”

Akaashi pipes up again. “I think about that a lot, too. When I’m not thinking of ways to survive, I think about other people.”

“Well, shoot.”

Akaashi leans forward as Kenma does, both taking more interest in the conversation, though a sense of fatigue hangs in the air, like they’ve gone late-night drinking at an izakaya instead of resting in the shell of the product of human civilization. “I wonder… if people can feel themselves being infected.”

“If they know they’re going to die,” Kenma echoes in added thought.

“That they’re slipping, or if they think they’re normal and others are crazy for not seeing the world the way they do. I doubt it.” Akaashi pauses. “Do you think that dogs are infected, too?”

“No,” Kenma says. “They don’t have our brains. We would know if they are by the way they act.”

Akaashi looks up from where he’s been enjoying the luxury of being able to play with his sleeves, his gun resting on his stomach in temporary safety under shelter. “How do you know when someone’s infected?”

“I…” Kenma looks away. He’s quiet. “The look in their eyes. I- we had a friend...”

The room absorbs Kenma’s whispers. 

“You see it in their eyes. He begged for us to kill him before he was gone, but he  _ knew _ . He was… getting sick, they said.”

“Did you… do it?”

Silence.

“I couldn’t leave him like that.” Kenma is barely audible. “Kill him or he kills us.”

Akaashi nods, pressing his lips together. “I understand. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No… I used to reset everything as soon as I made a mistake.” Kenma, in his corner, is as small as a ball, his knees close to his chest. “Games are nothing like reality.”

*

As much as they try to be quiet, Akaashi can hear the padding of footsteps when everyone leaves.

They’re just out the door as Akaashi’s body swings upright - everyone’s packs have been left back inside, as well as a pistol and Akaashi’s personal revolver. He had woken up just as Bokuto’s frantic whispers had woken up both Kuroo and Kenma, and he almost had risen to join the other three when Bokuto shushed the other two boys, bidding them not to wake the sleeping Akaashi.

He must’ve found something worrying during his patrol, though it strikes him that there’s an unspoken rule between all of them to never leave anyone alone. Their odd division alarms Akaashi, whose shoes were left on during the night in case he needed to make a speedy getaway. His gun rests by his side as he creeps out of the building into the nearby field, where he sees the dark figures under the light of the full moon.

Akaashi shivers as a breeze slinks past them and he picks up his pace, grateful that the grass pads his steps. But it looks like Bokuto’s preoccupied, anyway, with the way he trains his own gun at a distant object.

Akaashi can pick up words from where he stands, Bokuto’s back to him. Kenma and Kuroo are looking at Bokuto, saying something to him.

“... Me,” Kenma says, his voice hoarse with sleep. “Bokuto. Think for a moment.”

“I’m done  _ thinking _ ,” Bokuto snaps, and there’s a twig that snaps under his feet as he takes another step forward and the other two boys take a respective step back. Akaashi creeps in closer, not enough to be seen under the shadow’s guise, but enough to see  _ it _ .

The fear in Kenma’s eyes, wide and bright.

The fear in Kuroo’s eyes. Pained.

“You don’t want to do this, man,” Kuroo pleads. “What about Akaashi? What’ll he do when he finds out?”

Bokuto’s laugh is unlike Akaashi’s ever heard. His laughter was a warm thing before tonight, fully sprouting from his chest like spring blooms whenever he would fill a presence with it. It was contagious, not bitter, nor grating.

That’s when Akaashi understands.

“You know what?” Bokuto sneers, spitting his words out. “I’m sick and tired of being told what I can and can’t do.  _ All I’ve ever wanted to do is protect you. _ The same with Akaashi. All I’ve  _ ever _ done is protect him! And what do I get?”

“Bokuto, please,” Kenma whispers, barely loud enough for Akaashi to pick up. He looks around, wildly patting his own jacket as he looks for something to defend himself with.

“Mistrust. Hate. You don’t understand me,” he growls, which turns into a laugh. “And you never have. But I  _ see _ the way you two look at me, then each other. And I am _ sick to the bone _ of all your little looks! You two were never going  _ anywhere _ with your lives, you know that?! Dating, for what? For the sake of it? Me, I’m gonna start a whole fucking family with Akaashi  _ right by my side _ !”

Bokuto lifts his gun, heavy and loaded from the way his hand shakes.

“And you know what? I’m sick of pretending.” Akaashi can feel the grin in his words, the utter pleasure that courses through this Bokuto’s veins. It runs rampant, wild, corrupt. “I’ve just decided there’s no more room for you two.”

_ Bang. _

The tall body drops to the floor in front of Akaashi, who just watches, horrified.

Bokuto’s bleeding out, and there’s a dark red patch quickly spreading on the front of his white shirt from where he’s just been shot from point-blank in the back. Akaashi, too, drops to his knees.

There are worlds, they say, whose lands shiver rich with the dark red blood of the corrupt. The darkness within them, that bleeds out like the blood that nurtures the soil into scarlet blooms, teems with the errors of humanity, cultivated in the minds of not those who are weak, but those who are not strong enough. Good men, they lament, are lost, taken to meet the true God of the new world as they meet their end, hysteria running through their veins and seeping into the rest of the world.

But there are no Gods here.

There are no final words from Bokuto. There are no gasps for air, no dying lights. Death greets him quickly as the birds, crows, fly away to the sound of murder.

Kuroo picks himself up from the ground and stumbles over to where Akaashi kneels, his breath barely viable in his lungs. He closes Bokuto’s glassy eyes, his touch gentle, and brings Bokuto’s jaw to a close from where it hangs open in eternal betrayal.

The three boys know they can’t bury him, for the night is long and full of secrets. Instead, they turn back to their lodging in solidarity to pack up. There, in the heart of darkness, Akaashi realises that Chibo’s eyes still shine brightly under the moonlight.

But that isn’t enough.

**Author's Note:**

> WHEW.... OKAY, that was a wild ride!  
> special thank you to my AMAZING betas, [maeve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmm189/pseuds/mmm189) and [maya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostmaya/pseuds/ghostmaya), as well as the whole Haikyuu!! Writing Discord for being the best support ever as i feverishly scribbled this out in the span of two days.  
> the most special thank-you goes out to my friend, rei, for being _such_ an amazing writer and reigniting my passion for writing. i am so, so, so lucky to have met you, at first as a fellow author, but now, as a friend.  
> and thank YOU (yes you, reading this) for being a part of my writing world!!!!!
> 
> [my tumblr](https://sevensus.tumblr.com/)


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